I’M Francie Lanoo

By Laurie Nenson

Teenager Francie Lanoo is smitten with two things in life: shoes and heartthrob Berkeley Mills, who she knows is out of her league. After months of ogling him, she finally gains the confidence to befriend him. And when he, out-of-the-blue, asks what her ideal shoe would look like, she embarks on a quest to find it ... just for him.

Low and behold, the stars align and Francie begins dating Berkeley--all signs indicating theyre a match made in heaven. But when the opportunity presents itself for Francie to attend high school in Italy (the land of beautiful shoes), she ignores her gut, accepts Berkeleys encouragement, and says goodbye to the love of her life and the only world shes ever known.

Following high school graduation, having grown accustomed to freedom and lifes many adventures, Francie decides to study fashion design in New York, all the while continuing to refine the characteristics of her ongoing shoe hunt. And though Berkeley has chosen to attend college on the opposite side of the country, Francie remains hopeful that their relationship will one day resume. True love is supposed work that way, right?

Unexpectedly, tragedy strikes and flips the world upside-down, causing Francie to plunge into a tailspin, abandoning all pursuits of happiness. As time passes, she realizes that her chase for the ideal shoe was about something far more meaningful than footwear. Now only one question remains: does she have the tenacity to finish what she started and, in doing so, become the person shes meant to be?

Im FRANCIE LANOO is a sometimes quirky, sometimes emotional coming-of-age novel expressed through the eyes of a shoe fanatic as she attempts to find herself--and true love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532051456

Laurie Nenson

LAURIE NENSON is an interior designer by profession, an artist by nature, and a fiction writer by sheer determination. She is the author of a middle-grade novel, The Anemara Orchid; she continues to develop the many stories that fill her head; and she divides her time between Regina, Canada, and Scottsdale, USA.

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Copyright © 2018 Laurie Nenson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-5320-5144-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-5145-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018906730

iUniverse rev. date: 07/10/2018

Contents

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Epilogue

When a picture paints

more than a thousand words …

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New shoes, new shoes,

Red and pink and blue shoes.

Tell me, what would you choose,

If they’d let you buy?

Bright shoes, white shoes,

Dandy-dance-by-night shoes,

Perhaps-a-little-tight shoes,

Like some? So would I.

—Frida Wolfe

WHEN I WAS FOUR YEARS OLD, CURLED UP IN MY PINK SLEIGH BED, WAITING FOR lights out, I first heard Frida Wolfe’s poem Choosing Shoes, as recited by a wacky redheaded babysitter named Ella Bell. The animated rendition not only kick-started my obsession with pretty footwear but also clued me in to the fact that the opposite of ordinary was what flipped my pancakes—a revelation further affirmed by other stuff Ella exposed me to, like well-worded pop songs, quirky wardrobe accessories, intricate body ink decorating her limbs, and bedtime snacks displayed fancifully on a plate. God, that girl was too cool for cool. God, it sucked when her family moved away just three years into our companionship.

When I was eight years old, shopping with my look-alike mother (the petite, brunette, girl-next-door-type Claire Lanoo), I crossed paths with an outrageously dressed department-store shoe salesman bearing the nametag Mark B, who brought a smile to my face when he slipped onto my feet a pair of three-strapped metallic-gold Mary Janes that he claimed had fairy-tale princess written all over them. The flamboyant-beyond-words incident not only impressed upon me the fact that shoes could speak volumes about the wearer but also instilled in my brain the notion of exceptional footwear becoming my it, my expression, my chase. Though I expected many of my peeps (including my three-years-older, not-interested-in-fashion sister, Brigitte, and my three-years-younger, save-the-earth sister, Talula) might view the fixation as silly, I didn’t care, because walking around in those spectacular shoes made my internal happy meter register an all-new high.

When I was fourteen years old, I met someone who gave my shoe love a clear purpose. The first encounter with him happened just before the start of ninth grade, on a sunny Sunday afternoon in downtown’s City Center Park. I was in the company of my best gal pal, the auburn-haired, fine-featured, long-legged Phoebe Crane; two other gal pals, skinny, cute blonde Beatrice Nelson and willowy, borderline-Goth Silvia Reece; and my best guy pal, Patrick Needle, a baby-faced, lanky, awkward-like-me blond sweetheart I’ve happily known since I was a toddler. The five of us were wandering along a dusty pathway, doing a whole lot of nothing—because that’s what teenagers do in the small, middle-of-nowhere Midwestern city of Riverly Heights—and became so unbearably hot we headed to the park’s scenic riverbank to join a few others chilling in some knee-deep water. It was an activity that everyone decided to do barefoot, except for me, supreme bug hater, because I was determined to put a layer of protection between my feet and the slimy crawlies of the world. Long story abbreviated, while I was wading, I slipped, went bottom-up, got saturated from head to toe, and turned my tank top and short shorts into a second skin. Totally embarrassed, I wanted to go home and change, but after my friends convinced me that sun drying would take less time, I decided to tough it out at the park’s popular open green space, trusting that the intense rays would rid me of my clothing woes in a matter of minutes. That decision turned out to be my best ever, because on that green space, a pickup football game was in progress, involving the most gawk-worthy guys my gal-pals and I had ever seen. One of them, in particular, was so through-the-roof mesmerizing in every way, he caused an electric charge to ripple through every fiber of my being.

He was standing in a huddle about twenty feet away from where we were sitting on the grass, and the instant I laid my cocoa-bean-brown eyes on him, I knew my perceptions of perfection had been forever altered. Maybe it was because his angular facial features appeared to be sculpted by an artist, or maybe it was because his wild light brown hair was bouncing in time to the music playing nearby, or maybe it was because his muscular limbs gleamed so much they reflected sunlight into my eyes. Even the shoes he wore—black suede with white stripes—caught my attention because they were straight out of the 1970’s and different from everyone else’s on the field. Bottom line, the sum of his parts equaled nothing short of amazing, telling me with certainty that (a) Cupid was not a myth and (b) I’d need to tweak my happy meter to include the level infinity.

Eager to share my elation, I, for the first time, discarded my uneasy-around-boys ways and murmured to Phoebe, Holy guacamole, would you look at the guy in the tight gray T?

Giving me a light shoulder bump, she replied, Yeah, he’s about as first-worthy as they come.

With eyes locked on his every move, I nodded in agreement and then whispered the boldest statement I’ve ever made: I call dibs.

Minutes later, near where we were sitting, the object of my affection made an awesome catch, completed a wicked body roll, and came to an abrupt halt with his head mere inches from my flip-flopped feet. Any other day, that type of commotion would have made me scurry away like a frightened puppy, but not that day—not with him so close. Instead, as cool as a cucumber, I watched as he lifted his upper body away from the turf, looked at my feet and then at my face, and—simultaneous to the sun peeking from behind a cloud—exposed yet another outstanding attribute: his eyes.

Holy crap, they were stunning: large, perfectly round, emerald green, and so bright they made the gems on my dangling earrings look like dusty rocks.

As I stared into them, he softly said, You know, there’s an spider crawling on your ankle.

But I could not have cared less, because the only thing that mattered in that moment was my desire to remain in this guy’s company.

For a brief moment, he and I gawked at each other, until one of the other football players yelled, The game’s still on, lover boy!

Yeah, Ben, I’m aware, said the guy with the green eyes as he stood up and brushed the grass from his clothing.

Berkeley, grab the ball, said the guy named Ben.

Got it, he replied, and as I whispered, "Berkeley," he toe-flipped the ball high into the air, jumped up, and caught it—a maneuver that prompted a couple of teammates to hoot, holler, applaud.

Still within my earshot, Ben murmured to Berkeley, Even when there’s a hot distraction nearby, you find a way to make a near-impossible snag.

Glancing over his shoulder (maybe at me, maybe at Phoebe?), gripping the ball with both hands, Berkeley replied, Preventing that hot distraction from taking a ball to the face would give me the wherewithal to make a snag with my teeth.

Caught up in the moment of hearing a teenage guy properly use the word wherewithal in a sentence, I dazedly said, Oh, to be that ball right now.

And as if my words had been for Berkeley alone, he looked back at me and flashed the most-fantastic grin my eyes had ever witnessed.

Of course, I grinned back, immediately knowing that my body was experiencing its first adrenaline rush.

An hour later, when the football game wrapped up, I felt frantic that I might never see Berkeley again, so I told myself to stand up, walk over to him, and say something—anything. But as I sat there running opening lines through my brain, Phoebe, of all people, got up, darted toward Berkeley, and initiated the conversation I should have.

Clearly, she had not heard me call dibs.

Devastated as well as uninterested in witnessing what might develop between someone as girl-magnetic as Berkeley and someone as boy-magnetic as Phoebe, I shifted my focus to my other friends and tried to move on. When, soon after, I overheard Phoebe’s dialogue morph into full-out flirtation, I sighed and stated, It’s time for this banana to split.

I’ll walk home with you, Patrick said with a smile.

That’d be nice, I replied.

Let’s grab ice cream for the stroll.

My treat, I said, offering him a friendly half hug.

From about fifty steps away, I managed a discrete over-the-shoulder peek to see if Phoebe was making any inroads with Berkeley and thought I saw him peering past her, watching me leave. Maybe yes? Maybe no? Maybe it was just wishful thinking?

Maybe it didn’t matter, because I knew a guy like Berkeley was way out of my league.

Later that night, I was over-the-top relieved to learn from Phoebe that no sparks had ignited between Berkeley and her. How weird would it have been for me to watch them date? It would have been unbearable, torturous, the worst.

Two weeks later, much to my surprise, I ended up seeing Berkeley again, on the first day of ninth grade, in my designated homeroom. Just as I took a seat at a desk bearing my nametag, he smoothly sailed into the room.

Murmuring into my hand, Holy crap, we go to the same school now? I followed his every move as he casually wandered to the other side of the room, dropped his backpack to the floor, and took a seat in the back.

After verifying via a stolen glance that his eyes were equally as awesome even under the screaming-white classroom lighting, I told myself to walk across the room and get noticed, maybe grab a tissue or sharpen a pencil—anything. But as I readied myself to make my move, cute and bubbly Colette Manner stood up, slinked toward Berkeley, settled her forearms on his desk, and nonchalantly positioned her face about an inch from his.

Exhaling until my lungs felt empty, I started doodling on my binder, and whispered, Maybe I’ll find my nerve tomorrow?

Unfortunately, tomorrow was a bust too because, in what could only be described as well played, Colette strategically switched desks to the one directly in front of Berkeley so she could command his attention for the entire semester.

If only I’d thought of that.

Over the next couple of months, as it became clear that half of the girls in my school were also hung up on Berkeley, I accepted that I didn’t have it in me to compete—I had no relationship experience; I was uncomfortable in my own skin; and I didn’t know the meaning of the word provocative—so I threw in the towel.

From then on, I did everything in my power not to dwell on the guy: I darted in the opposite direction if I saw him heading my way; I pretended not to get caught up by everything he did (playing guitar with his band in the school’s talent show, reciting poetry at the front of the classroom, or sprinting past my house during one of his early morning runs); and I even forced myself to stare into the eyes of a few other guys in search of another impactful connection, but when the end results had no measurable effect, I abandoned the effort.

Eight weeks of Berkeley avoidance later, aware that my ability to function normally was still every bit as hampered by the slightest sighting of him, I hatched a plan to speak to the guy, hoping the icebreaker might make me less awkward in his midst. So one morning, I woke up, dressed up, put on my shoes and lip-gloss, and headed to school with the plan to walk up to him and quip, Nice sneakers—too bad we don’t share the same shoe size. But in what could only be described as an extreme case of bad timing, I came around a corridor corner at the exact instant Berkeley did from the opposite direction, collided head-on with him, and landed on the floor—butt first—practically in his lap.

Dazed and disheveled, he cursed, I cursed, lunches exploded into fragments no longer edible, and school supplies flew everywhere. One pen even rolled away and tripped an innocent passerby.

As Berkeley and I crawled around and gathered our stuff, I took a deep breath, smelled his freshly showered scent, and became so flustered that I mumbled to his face, Nothing like a big bang to start the day.

Though he laughed, I was so embarrassed that I stood up, scurried away, and repeatedly exclaimed, Oh my God, oh my God, why did I say that?

Plunking into a seat at the back of my first-period classroom, between my friends Phoebe and Patrick, I took a deep breath and quietly confessed, I have a secret pining that’s affecting my ability to act and think straight.

You’re crushing on someone? Patrick asked with eyes wide open.

I looked to the floor. Maybe. No. Yes. Okay, I am.

Grabbing my forearm, Phoebe said, Let me guess: Berkeley Mills.

My eyes darted upward. How did you know?

She smirked, Because every time you’re within fifty feet of him, you morph into a spaz.

Covering my eyes, I mumbled, Just like I did today.

Following a shared laugh over the telling of my recent big-bang story, my friends insisted on getting involved, Phoebe with a plan to make me more noticeable and to pass along any Berkeley-related gossip, and Patrick with intention of dragging me anywhere Berkeley might be.

When New Year’s rolled around, I kept the ball rolling by announcing three solid resolutions: I’m going to hit the party circuit more often. I’m going to quit loitering in the back wings of every room I’m in. And I’m going to speak to guys not only when spoken to.

The next thing I knew, I was getting some attention. I even got some experience by going on a couple of dates, first with a cute guy named Riley and, a week later, with a guy named Fielding. Though both outings ended with one-and-done goodnight kisses (because I felt nothing), they instilled in me enough confidence to stop running in the other direction whenever Berkeley was in the vicinity, and enabled me to watch from a close vantage point when he ditched Colette, moved on to a cute ginger named Corinne, and eventually settled on his current fling, blonde and beautiful Catharine Armour, which left me wondering, Do I need to change the first letter of my name to C, to put me in the running?

At the start of second semester, when I learned I had a class schedule identical to Berkeley’s, I realized I had an open door—six hours a day, five days a week—to get on his radar, which should have set the stage for an easy verbal opener. Right? Wrong. By the end of the second week, I still hadn’t uttered a single word to him, not even a reciprocal hi when the two of us entered the room at the same time, although I did occasionally manage a smile.

When Phoebe got wind of my slow-going progress, she took hold of my shoulders and said, Okay, shrinking violet, I’ll give you exactly twenty-four hours to say something to that guy, or I’m going to do it for you.

With pouty lips, I exclaimed, Don’t you dare!

Sporting a devilish smirk, she said, Surely you know by now that I do my best work when I’m dared.

Because I did know, I exhaled and mumbled, Okay, fine. Tomorrow, I’ll initiate something.

The next morning, when I arrived at school, Phoebe ushered me to the door of my classroom, armed me with a sixteen-ounce energy drink, instructed me to consume it in one long gulp, and said, You look like you’re going to faint.

Nearly gagging from the sugar, I replied, I hope I do so I won’t have to go through with this.

Grinning and giving me a nudge, she said, Just relax. You’ll be fine.

All abuzz, I sat down at a desk beside Berkeley, looked his way, and boldly said, What I would give right now for a pair of those fake eyes, the ones that fit over your own to make you look awake when you’re not.

Turning to face me, he smiled and replied, But then, Ms. Lanoo, how would you know which guys in the room are checking you out?

Rattled and feeling energized enough to climb walls, I lost all ability to concentrate, zoomed my eyes to the front of the room, blocked out the rest of the world for one full hour, and swore never to consume caffeine again.

The good news was that after that encounter, Berkeley and I regularly said hello when we walked into the classroom together, always smiled at each other from across crowded spaces, and even exchanged contact information. Best of all, we became science partners—at his suggestion—enabling me to spend the last period of every school day working within two feet of him, an hour I grew to love because it left me with enough of a Berkeley fix to last until the next morning.

On the upside, during that time, I learned that Berkeley’s inner awesomeness perfectly matched his outer. On the downside, during that time, I learned that the chances of me making inroads with him were slim to none, because the other girls vying for his attention were exceptionally skilled at maneuvering next to Berkeley and pushing me to the periphery.

In mid-May of ninth grade following an art class, Berkeley strolled over to me at the sink, grabbed some of my brushes to help clean them, and initiated the most-unexpected—and cute—conversation I’ve ever experienced.

Glancing at my aqua tie-up sandals (eye-catchers because they had lavender-ribbon laces that looked like wings), he said, Those shoes have ‘bird lover’ written all over them.

Broadly smiling, I replied, Uh-oh, my nerdy passion has been outed.

Smirking and shifting his sweet-smelling body toward mine, he responded, So out of curiosity, what kind of shoe has ‘Francie Lanoo’ written all over it?

Accidently brushing my forearm against his, and thereby losing all sense of time and place, I had a flashback to the Frida Wolfe poem, and replied, ‘Dandy-dance-by-night shoes,’ I expect they’ll be.

I know; it was a ridiculous thing to say. But it did prompt Berkeley to smile and reply, Well, if you need a partner to do that dandy dancing, feel free to give me a call. Then he hung around the sink with me well into the lunch hour.

Ever since that day, two things in my world have noticeably changed. First, I can’t put on shoes without thinking of Berkeley’s question, and second, I regularly catch Berkeley glancing at my feet, leading me to wonder what might happen if I were to find the perfectly me shoes, and strut into the school wearing them.

That’s the reason why, as of today—my first day of tenth grade—I am a girl on a mission: I’m going to uncover the shoe style that has me written all over it and I’m going to show it to Berkeley to see what he has to say. I’ve even come up with a plan to make it happen: basically, every time I step into noteworthy footwear, I’m going to analyze the style for features that reflect me, and if I’m lucky enough to find one, I’m going to record it in a database (one point at a time) until I’ve compiled a comprehensive and well-rounded list. Following that, I will imaginarily mold the adjectives into something tangible and scour the retail world for its earthly equivalent.

Of course, I have no idea how long this shoe-volution will take—maybe until I’m super old, like twenty. Maybe it will never reach an end, because there are millions of shoe styles out there, and a girl’s only got so much time. But I plan to have some fun with it, and for a shoe lover like me, that’s got to be worth my time. Right?

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THE FIRST FOOTWEAR I’M ANALYZING FOR MY QUEST IS A PAIR OF BLACK RUBBER-soled wedges that started out as my sister Brigitte’s, and got handed down to me after she over-wore them and got sick of them. To inject a bit of me into them, I changed the laces from black to white and glued dozens of tiny metallic studs all over the sides. Voilà—rebirthed and suitably named the Debut-Taunters.

I’m wearing them tonight to the first dance of the school year, and I’m pairing them with a low-cut, form-fitting, bell-sleeved black mini-dress and sheer black stockings, creating an ensemble that is a bit extroverted for me but came highly recommended by Phoebe, who argued it was crucial for attracting the attention I am seeking.

I went all in and heightened the visual drama by turning my long dark brown hair into a mass of loose, flowing curls; by enhancing my pouty lips with some hot-pink metallic gloss; and by making my eyes appear super large with a heap of smoky makeup and thick mascara.

Taking one last look at my skinny body in the mirror, wishing I were a few inches taller and a few inches curvier, I sweep my always-dangling bangs away from my face, admire the fact that I hardly recognize myself, and exclaim, You look way older than fifteen!

As I insert a pair of large hoop earrings, I sigh with relief that my father is away at a legal convention this weekend, because if he were to see me looking this enhanced, he’d nail every door and window of our house shut.

I hear the doorbell ring and feel my heart race because I know my date is here.

No, it’s not Berkeley (God, if only!). Rather, it’s blond, hunky, pretty boy Daniel East, whose arrival is making my hands fidget because he’s about to take me to where Berkeley is expected to be. Yippee.

The minute I walk through the arched doorway of the school’s auditorium, I dart toward my three favorite gal pals, initiate a group hug, and admire how they’ve pulled themselves together.

Touching Beatrice’s arm, I say, You have to let me borrow that romper sometime soon. I am over-the-moon in love with it.

Sure, she replies, and after adjusting my sleeve, she asks, Why have you never worn your hair like that before? It looks amazing.

Because it’s so much work, that’s why, I respond, smiling and then turning to the always-clad-in-black Silvia to say, You look at least twenty-one tonight.

With devious eyes, she responds, So do you, which is why we should try to get into a nightclub later.

I lean into her. Do you seriously think we could?

With a hand over her mouth, she mumbles, I do know a guy who knows a guy who could make us some fake I.D.

Giggling, I say, And how long do you think it would take for your highly-decorated detective dad to find it?

A valid point, she replies with a shrug.

Turning to the seductively dressed Phoebe, who is proudly showing off a pair of legs every teenage girl dreams of, I quietly say, You should let me take a pic of you right now so you can post it and get a cazillion likes.

Raising an eyebrow—because, of course, she knows that—she points out, Based on the fact that half the guys in the room are gawking at you right now, I think you’re the one who should be photographed.

Rolling my eyes, I say, No one’s gawking at me, and when I look around and realize that some guys are, I drop my eyes to the floor, and allow my hair to cover my face.

Nudging me with her elbow, Phoebe asks, Hey, didn’t you come here with Daniel?

I look toward the entryway. Yes! Wow! I completely forgot about him.

Leaning into me, she notes, I still don’t understand why you’re on a date with one guy while totally hung up on another.

Biting my lower lip, I respond, Because one guy asked me out on a date, and the other one didn’t.

Shaking her head, she says, Well, if this new look you’re sporting doesn’t blow the mind of the guy who didn’t ask you, then it’s time to accept he’s senseless.

Shrugging but also feeling an adrenaline rush at the reference to the guy I came to see, I perk up and become a heat-seeking drone, panning the room for what my eyes most crave. But when the effort yields no results, I turn my attention to the ceiling to watch the hundreds of silver streamers that are dangling and dancing.

Transfixed by one caught up in an air swirl on the far side of the room, I follow its erratic movement here, there and everywhere, watching intently as it eventually drops in the vicinity of—Oh my God, Berkeley is here!

Feeling as if I’ve just swallowed a net full of butterflies, I pause for a moment to catch my breath, and then use one of my well-practiced side glances to observe a group of classmates that are swarming him, no doubt hoping his awesomeness spreads to them.

Though I’m only able to see his athletic silhouette from behind, I know he looks awesome tonight. He always does.

As large hands grip my shoulders from behind, I wince and cower, but when I realize they belong to Daniel, I exclaim, Hey! There you are.

Flashing his super whitened teeth, he says, What happened to you? I turned around, and you were gone.

Sorry. I guess I got swept up in the crowd.

Circling around to stand torso to torso with me—Whoa, he likes to stand close—he says, I got swept up too, by some girls who insisted on adjusting my shirt collar and my hair.

I grin. Well, at least you weren’t lonely.

No, that’s never been a problem for me.

I slap him on the arm. Good for you.

Smiling, sliding a muscular arm around my waist, he murmurs, I’m gonna grab us some drinks. What can I get for you?

I shrug. I’m up for anything.

Leaning into in my ear, he murmurs, I’ll keep that in mind for later.

How charming, I whisper to myself, as he turns and walks away.

Rejoining my gal pals—who are intently watching Daniel walk away—I ponder what it would be like to continue dating a guy that easily scores 9.5 on the visual scale (the 0.5 deducted because he wears sneakers so obnoxiously bold they require sunglasses to view). Would I eventually block out his cocky behavior? Would the boldness of his shoes start to fade? Would my daydreams of being with someone else still linger?

Grasping my arm, Phoebe says, Earth to Francie.

I stand at attention. Yeah, Francie to Earth.

Berkeley’s here, standing along the far wall, under the school bell.

I know.

You should go over and say hi.

No, I shouldn’t.

Why?

Because, as you very well know, I become too awkward around him.

She smiles. If he saw you right now, I don’t think awkward is word he’d use to describe you.

Shrugging, I say, More important than that, I don’t want to get lumped in with his many fans over there, like Catharine, who just glued herself so tightly to Berkeley’s torso, a piece of paper couldn’t squeeze between them.

Gripping my shoulder, Phoebe says, Watch closely.

Okay.

As much as Catharine looks super attractive with her Marilyn hair, dress, and shoes, whenever she moves toward Berkeley, he edges away.

I squint. Yes, that’s true.

Before Phoebe has a chance to comment further, Daniel reappears with a drink in each hand—orange, of course, the loudest color—and after handing me one, he starts manhandling my body again.

Rolling my eyes, I wriggle away, reach to the floor, grab a handful of fallen streamers, stand up again, and peek in the direction of the guy I would never wriggle away from.

At the same time, as if by an act of my will, Berkeley turns around and looks at me.

He smiles. I smile. He waves. I wave. Then, for some reason, he keeps staring at me despite the fact that his guy friends are babbling away to him.

I can’t stop staring either, and I watch like a hawk as he grabs his phone and sends a text, which surprisingly comes to me, inquiring, Hey, Ms. Lanoo, what’s up over there?

Taking further steps away from Daniel, I reply, Oh, you know, typical teenagery.

He smiles and replies, Same over here. Got any suggestions for doing something atypical?

I think and reply, How about grading geeky dance moves on a scale of one to ten?

He shakes his head and texts, No, too many to keep track of.

I pause and reply, How about spotting the hidden flasks?

He shakes his head again. No, the teachers are already on that.

I look to the floor and say, How about stringing streamers?

His face scrunches up. Elaborate, please.

Feeling as if a spotlight has been aimed my way, I set my drink on a nearby ledge, retrieve a handful of the coiled strands from the floor, and, to the beat of the music, decorate myself. Some streamers are placed around my torso; some are placed around my wrists; one is placed around each ankle, and several are looped loosely around my neck. After swaying from side to side to make them dance, I attempt a chorus-line pose and text, Ta-da.

Grinning, Berkeley texts back, Clap, clap, clap.

Taking a bow, I grab more streamers, stand up straight, and gesture that they are all his, watching intently as he says something to his friends and starts walking.

Alarmed to see he’s heading toward me (Is he heading toward me?), I retrieve my drink, sashay toward Phoebe, and say, Will you keep Daniel occupied for the next few minutes?

Sure, she answers, smiling when she notices the direction of my gaze and then nudging me in the back to make sure I don’t run out the door.

Deep in the middle of the crowd, Berkeley scoops the streamers out of my hand, places them on the top of my head, and says, Belle of the ball.

Tweaking my new headgear, I say, Thanks! My outfit needed that.

Looking me in the eyes, he says, Ms. Lanoo, your outfit needs nothing tonight. You look stunning.

Thank you, I reply, getting lost, as usual, in his dreamy gaze.

Calmly, he looks at his feet and says, Umm, you know, you’re dripping your drink on me.

Looking downward, noticing I’ve pouring orange pop all over Berkeley’s loafers, I step back and say, Holy crap, I’m so sorry!

In the midst of me crouching and using some of my headgear streamers to clean his shoes and bare ankles, he leans over and says, Don’t worry about it, Ms. Lanoo. It’s all okay.

I look up. Are you sure?

I’m sure, he replies, grasping my shoulders and easing me upward, taking my beverage and setting it on a table, and discreetly shifting us away from the mess.

Turning to face me, he says, So, umm, Francie, would you like to, umm, dance?

Flustered because Berkeley has never before called me Francie, I stupidly blurt out, Dance? Like, alone, right here?

His face contorts. No, not alone, bozo. With me!

I sputter, Well. Okay. Sure.

Shaking his head and grabbing my hand, he says,